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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25512532">And Like Flowers</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/michael_the_angelo/pseuds/michael_the_angelo'>michael_the_angelo</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Waves and Wilds [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Fae, Bitter Jaskier | Dandelion, Fae Jaskier | Dandelion, Heartbreak, Kinda, Post-Episode: S01E06 Rare Species, Pre-Relationship, idk I'm bad at tagging this I have no idea how to tag this</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 05:54:58</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>631</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25512532</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/michael_the_angelo/pseuds/michael_the_angelo</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Withered buttercups spring up in wake of his footsteps, but Jaskier doesn’t seem to notice. On he walks, until that cursed mount has fallen past the horizon, until the air weeps with his misery, until the birds have quieted their song, until day and night and life have forgotten their meanings.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Waves and Wilds [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1866580</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>136</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>And Like Flowers</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>So this is a vignette type of thing from a much bigger idea that I don't know if I'll ever actually write. I've gotten some pieces drafted and a vague timeline but honestly I'm struggling the most with adapting my writing style to a long work since I normally stick with shorter snapshot kind of stuff. If I do end up writing and posting more I'll either post it to this work or upload something here to point y'all to the new work and/or series. Because of all this I'm marking it as complete now but take that with a grain of salt.</p><p>Fair warning though, this isn't beta'd (betaed? beta-ed?? I've read enough fanfics that I'm pretty sure I should know this) and it's only had a cursory look over. The title is also just thrown out there because I hate titling and I've not written enough to have any good motifs to throw in so The Amazing Devils it is. The line is from Elsa's Song.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Destiny sure all hell hasn’t been kind to either of them, might as well give Geralt the one thing he’ll say he wants.</p><p>Fuck.</p><p>Maybe this is why he keeps getting into this shit, that bardic people pleasing going too far and now he’s walking away from what’s become his entire life to give the man who gave him one of the harshest verbal beat downs in his life the one thing he’s ever explicitly asked for outside of a fucking nap.<br/>
Well fine then. Good fucking riddance. </p><p>With a heaving sigh, Jaskier swings his lute around, steadfastly not thinking about how he came across the sexy beast, and plucks angrily at the strings. His normal peacocking is left in the dust, leaving room for his emotions to fester in the oppressive silence created by the lack of clopping hooves. Weeds and creeping vines trail after him, twisting into gnarled knots and thick clumps along the edge of the dirt road. Withered buttercups spring up in wake of his footsteps, but Jaskier doesn’t seem to notice. On he walks, until that cursed mount has fallen past the horizon, until the air weeps with his misery, until the birds have quieted their song, until day and night and life have forgotten their meanings. On that stretch of road a lamentation is born in thorny ivy, dotted with yarrow, scarlet pimpernel, and cyclamen, and lined with battered buttercups.</p><p> </p><p>Eventually Jaskier’s wandering leads him to a town. His red doublet has turned brown from road dust and his substantial scruff betrays how long he’s spent kicking it up. The strings of his lute snapped who knows how long ago, worn away like the soles of his boots. No buttercups follow him now, having petered out with each loss of a string. With a world-weary huff Jaskier returns the lute to its place on his back as he moves towards the town proper.</p><p>For being in the middle of nowhere, nameless and likely unused to travelers, its residents pay little mind to his presence, showing neither intrigue nor suspicion. The center of the town houses a ramshackle fountain of sorts, heavily patched with mortar. Stalls lining the square boast a fair of reasonably fresh produce and bland tunics and trousers that nearly match Jaskier’s current outfit, dust encrusted as he is. A small bakery covers the smell of chicken shit with fresh bread and baked fruit. A woodworker and smithy have claimed one corner, their wares set under the same tent as the building they’re backed against shelters them from the sun. </p><p>Jaskier finds his coin purse lacking, the clothing vendor glaring as he hovers over the boots he has no chance of affording. With a tired smile he asks for directions to an inn or tavern if there’s one to be had, shuffling off the way he’s pointed with a wince as blisters make themselves known. The blisters lead his mind on a path back to Roach and he wishes her the best apples in his absence before brushing the thoughts away. There’s no use in them now, his life only has room for the insect shaped roaches now. Determined to move on with his life before he gets sucked into wallowing, Jaskier squares his shoulders and continues down the street with his head held high. He brushes a layer of dirt from his shoulders and decides he is done with being the Witcher’s bard. When he walks into the tavern, he walks in as Dandelion, master of the seven liberal arts. Life on the Path has turned back to life simply on the road, traveling between taverns and brothels. A new him has begun but for now he doesn’t think about, he just sings and dances and flirts. He’ll think about it tomorrow.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Meaning of mentioned flowers:<br/>Buttercups: they're thrown in there because Jaskier means buttercup, that's it really<br/>Cyclamen: separation, goodbye<br/>Scarlet Pimpernel: change<br/>Yarrow: Cure for a broken heart</p><p>Also, did anyone catch the Amazing Devils reference I threw in? A cookie to anyone who can tell me what song it comes from. Also also, it wasn't actually intentional, I didn't realize it was there until I reread it and tbh I'm kinda proud of that.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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